Legacy

by Alan Judd

  ‘Very much your ears only,’ Christopher continued. ‘Married man and all that.’

  ‘Does Maggie know about this?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Charles took his place next to Anna, who was talking to a Head Office visitor on her other side. He read the menu, rearranged the silver cruets and watched Desmond trying to overhear Gerry’s earnest conversation with Rebecca. Hookey nodded briefly from behind the candelabra while talking to the Director of Administration, the most senior guest.

  ‘How did this happen?’ asked Anna, turning. ‘Did you switch places?’

  ‘No, the other chap did.’

  ‘It was rather presumptuous of you.’

  ‘No, really, he did. But I didn’t make much effort to stop him.’

  ‘Anyway, I gather things have come to a full stop with your case, for the time being, anyway. Hugo told me about it. He shouldn’t have but I think he assumed you’d already told me yourself, more or less. I hope you don’t mind. It must be more than upsetting for you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m thinking of resigning.’

  She looked at him, her eyes unsmiling now. ‘You shouldn’t let the office and its business take over your soul. It can, you know, from the best of motives. Most things turn out to be not as important as they seem. Even espionage. Sometimes especially espionage.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s the personal elements. The truth about my father. Resigning seems the only way to resolve it, now that the whole thing is put on ice.’

  ‘I can understand that but don’t do anything in a hurry. There’s always more time than you think. Hugo resigned once. I know it’s hard to credit but he was desperately concerned they were going to use the reporting of one of his agents in such a way that it might compromise the agent. So, after a night of torment and darkness of the soul he handed in his resignation letter the next morning. Then he found the story had broken anyway and the information was common knowledge so he had to crawl back to the head of Personnel and pinch it from his in-tray. Typical Hugo, always doing what turns out to have been the wrong thing for what might have been the right reason.’

  ‘Don Quixote?’

  ‘Inspector Clouseau, more like.’

  The Director of Administration, tall and balding, gave an after-dinner speech in which he predicted no foreseeable end to the Cold War, an increase in the intrusiveness of the European Community, Hong Kong as the major British issue in the Far East, with South Africa and Rhodesia as major preoccupations in Africa, Brazil as the main factor in South America and the Middle East and Ireland as continuing insolubles. Oil was the joker in the international pack and at home the petrol shortages of a year or two ago could become a regular feature of life. Internally, the service had to invest in new communications technology and would look to employ more women and coloured people. PV requirements had hitherto made recruitment of the latter difficult but this would ease as the parents of younger generations tended to be born here. The Chief himself was very keen on seeing more black, brown and yellow faces. Maggie was particularly vigorous in her applause at the end, with Christopher, next to her, joining in belatedly. Maurice Lydd clapped longer than anyone else.

  There was no lecture or case history that evening and the bar was crowded and noisy. The kidnappers’ accounts of their escapade were already beginning to diverge, Lydd talked earnestly to the Director of Administration, his podgy face taking on the masked weightiness of a seventeenth-century Dutch political portrait, while Hugo lectured Hookey, who stared into his glass and said nothing.

  ‘Room 2, Gatehouse,’ Hookey rasped, clutching Charles’s arm as he squeezed past. ‘See you there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Bloody disgraceful,’ said Hugo a moment later, in lowered tones. ‘All that horseplay before dinner. Sort of thing that gets the office a bad name. Right in front of the D of A, too. I bet he’s furious. Won’t do much for Gerry’s career. Though I admit he’s done enough damage to himself in his time. Just as well it was a Marine and not some local councillor or busybody. Reprehensible, I call it.’ He stood very close, twitching rapidly. ‘Eh?’

  ‘A bit silly. No harm done, I daresay.’

  ‘Not the point. Sort of thing that makes me despair of the service.’

  The Gatehouse was built of massive stones and straddled the entrance from the moat. A flight of unlit stairs led up behind the guardroom into a brick passage evocative, in its utility finish, of the Second World War. Hookey’s large bed-sitting room faced across the parade ground towards the sea. He was in an armchair by the gas fire. There was whisky on the table, to which he pointed while lighting his pipe. ‘God, what an awful evening. Bloody glad to get out of that, aren’t you? What I hate about coming down here. All that heartiness. Like the army, don’t you find?’

  ‘I don’t mind, as long as I can get away from it.’

  ‘I do. Well, perhaps I didn’t so much, then. Joined in a bit more, I s’pose, but I never really liked it. After Anzio’ – he exhaled a landmine burst of pipe smoke – ‘I was casevaced out, wounded, not badly, fortunately. But when convalescing I found base life so awful I fiddled my way back to the battalion early. Persuaded the medics I’d get better quicker at the front, with something to do, if you’ve ever heard such rubbish. Fool that I was.’ He coughed. ‘Stopped another packet twenty-four hours later, more seriously that time. Never saw the battalion again after that. Sit down.’

  Charles sat with his whisky and took out his own pipe.

  ‘Delighted to see you smoke,’ continued Hookey. ‘You shouldn’t, of course, but it’s important to have at least one vice. Never trust people with vices you can’t see. They’ve got worse ones. I shouldn’t smoke as much as I do, of course, but what with the war and all that, I thought what the hell. Most of my friends were killed and I should’ve been. Felt I’ve been on borrowed time ever since, so I’ve done what I liked. And said it, too, which causes more trouble. Now this latest development of yours has really set the cat among the MI5 pigeons.’ He laughed. ‘London tarts, KGB officers, government ministers, their idea of a nightmare. Huge bloody joke to us, of course, because we’re dealing with that sort of thing all the time overseas. But for them it’s shades of the Profumo scandal and all the rest of it right in their backyard. You can imagine what the press would make of it, especially if your tart chose to tell her story. MI5 would end up being accused of spying on our own ministers. They always are. Last thing they’d dream of doing. They’d much rather the Russians did it, and kept it secret so they don’t have to arrest anyone. Spy cases always cause problems for them – why didn’t they catch ’em before, how many more are there, does this mean that MI5 itself is penetrated and all that rubbish. They’d much rather just know about and record it – monitor it, they call it – and kick a Russian out now and again. Anyway, as I think you know, they’ve formally asked that you – we – break off all contact with both your KGB friend and his popsy. That means killing the case. How d’you feel about it?’

  ‘I don’t like it. I want to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Hoped you’d say that.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m thinking of resigning and continuing as a private citizen. I want to find out exactly what my father did.’

  ‘Are you now? Are you?’ Hookey spoke musingly. ‘That would be a pity. A loss, both for the service and you. Perhaps even a serious loss, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows and laughed briefly again. ‘MI5 would be in a frightful stew, terrified it would all come out, but I can’t see any way you could be prevented. It may be wise to wait, though.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and one hand splayed, as if to tell off his fingers. ‘MI5 have asked that we suspend meetings with your two friends. Fine. Unless we have an overriding reason to continue, we have to respect that. But what if we can take the case to the next stage without any meetings? After all, the next stage, if I remember rightly, was to be crucial: to show Lover Boy – whose nickname will be changed if this case ever comes to anything – that we know about
his girlfriend, and judge from his reactions whether he’s recruitable. If he is, you see, we’re in a different game altogether, because recruiting him is an infinitely better way of finding out all about your father than a long-winded investigation. And we can probably get him to drop the tart, so MI5 can go back to sleep on that one. We recover our aggressive initiative rather than watching with creeping paralysis as the case gets closed down around us.’

  ‘What do we do – telephone him, write to him or what?’

  ‘No, no, dear boy, nothing as unsubtle as that. Any actual communication would be construed as a meeting. Mere casuistry to pretend otherwise. No, what I have in mind is simpler, a more defensible piece of casuistry. In order to show him we know what he’s up to, we don’t need to say anything to anyone. All we need do is let him see that you’ve seen him with her. Not a word need be – indeed, must not be – spoken.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘We watch to see if he goes on doing it. Coming from where he does, he will assume that we would use the information to blackmail or entrap him. If, knowing that we know, he goes on seeing her, it’s a fair bet that he’s prepared to talk. He may even get in touch with you, in which case we can argue that you should respond. If he does neither, then we know he’s battened down the hatches, doesn’t want to play any kind of game, and MI5 can relax.’ He sat back. ‘Except on the matter of your father, of course,’ he added, making it sound like an afterthought. ‘Are you on for it? Eh?’

  Charles was.

  ‘It’ll take some engineering. Lot of monotonous hanging around with surveillance on your part. But if you’re prepared to delay your resignation – delay, that’s all, I’m not asking you to change your mind – I shall tell – tell, not ask – MI5 that this is what we want to do and if they don’t like it they can get their DG to take it up with our Chief.’

  ‘Do we have to tell them at all?’

  Hookey nodded. ‘Once things have gone this far, and they’re formal, there’s no dissimulation. Disagreement, yes, but high-level dissimulation, no. Not in either service’s interest.’

  Charles relit his pipe. The four matches in his tray contrasted with the single one in Hookey’s.

  ‘You’re not tamping down properly,’ Hookey said. ‘It’s got to be firm but not so tight as to disrupt air-flow.’

  ‘If Lover Boy does carry on, are you sure we’ll be allowed to continue?’

  ‘Well.’ Hookey sat back and stared at the ceiling, pausing with the unhurried confidence of those who do not expect interruption. ‘We could make a much stronger argument for doing so. You see, there is another element to this case.’ He looked down his nose at Charles. ‘What I am about to tell you constitutes formal indoctrination. I’ll get you to sign the papers later. You must never so much as hint to any living soul that we possess this sort of information. If you do, it will not be a case of your deciding whether to resign but of your immediate resignation, like it or not, eh?’

  Charles nodded.

  ‘We know from a reliable and extremely delicate source that for some years the Russians have been burying secret caches in western countries. More on the continent than here, but recently here too. They could be used to conceal anything from small nuclear devices at the alarmist end of the scale to arms and explosives for use in sabotage operations during the run-up to war, to agent comms, to alias documentation for anyone on the run or needing a new identity for whatever reason. Anything they damn well like, in fact. Some of those on the continent we believe to contain radio transmitters and explosives, though we know less about those here because we’ve only fairly recently broken into this end of it. It is called Operation Legacy and locating and filling the caches is the responsibility of the KGB’s Directorate S. It is probably their agents – Illegals, infiltrated here under natural cover, usually having little or no contact with the London Residency – who would use them. Naturally, we are very keen to know where these secret sites are and what’s in ’em so we can neutralise and monitor them. Now, in a highly hostile and difficult environment such as this country – which, since the 105 expulsions, is how they see us – Directorate S probably needs help from the Residency, and my hunch is that this is where your friend comes in. I reckon he is probably the Illegals support officer, tasked with the operational support of these delicate Director ate S operations. That would account for his behaviour pattern differing from that of his KGB colleagues. There’s usually not more than one per residency and no other possible candidate has been identified. If he is, and if he were recruited, he could give us vital information about these things. As you might imagine, MI5 are as keenly concerned about it as we are, to put it mildly. Even our minister of defence might keep his trousers on for this one.’

  It was easy, too, to imagine how useful a recruited government surveyor might have been in selecting sites. ‘But could Lover Boy have been my father’s case officer in England? I mean, he’s my age, and my father – well, he might –’

  ‘Doubt it. You’ve seen yourself that his looked like a 2CD case with a 2CD case officer who followed him around the world. He might have been handed over for local running here but didn’t Lover Boy give you the impression that what he knew of your father’s case was drawn from a written briefing from the Centre? That suggests that he was not the case officer and that they never met. But he may have had a supporting role without necessarily knowing who your father was until they told him after he’d met you. You’ll give it a go, I hope? Good. More whisky?’

  It was late when he walked back to the mess. Through the windows facing the rose garden he could see a few survivors propped up at the bar or slumped in chairs, talking, no doubt, the inevitable shop – who was posted where, how so-and-so of all people had been made controller, whether it was true about old what’s-his-name and his secretary. Not wanting to be dragged in, he crossed the garden to return to his room via an outer door. The night was mild, with almost no breeze, and a half moon shimmered on the Solent. He recognised immediately the figure leaning against the battlements.

  ‘I thought you must have gone to bed,’ said Anna.

  ‘I’ve been with Hookey.’

  ‘What did he say to the news of your leaving?’

  ‘He said to wait.’

  ‘As I said to Hugo when he thought he was going to. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘You don’t like being an office wife?’

  She turned towards the sea. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s being a wife I don’t like, or whether it’s being married to the office. Both have their compensations, of course.’

  ‘Did you know you were marrying the office?’

  ‘Oh yes, right from the start, from before he joined. The office is the great romance of his life, not me.’ She folded her arms on top of the wall and rested her chin upon them. ‘It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? There always seems to be more weather here. I don’t know why we don’t all live by the sea, all the time.’

  ‘Get a posting to a sea-port.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could bear another three years as an embassy wife. All those coffee mornings, those interminable bridge evenings, those dreadful dinners for people you’d never dream of talking to, just because they might be useful or because you owe them. I suppose it’s the same with any job that’s at all political. And having to be nice to the head of chancery’s awful wife who’s forever trying to queen it over you. All for the sake of your husband’s career. And the school fees. We might be better off in a beach hut in West Wittering.’

  ‘So it’s a toss-up between which of us leaves what – or who – first?’

  She straightened and pushed back her hair. ‘Oh, it’s not that dramatic. I shouldn’t complain. I go through these moods sometimes, like everyone else. We’re very lucky, really.’ She glanced at the bar window, where by now only Hugo and a couple of others remained. Her mouth set firmly. ‘I think he’s had enough shop. They won’t have talked about anything else, not a thing. When you think of all there is in th
e world to talk about – and they just go on about each other. D’you know why I’m down here? Because I’m talking to a spouses’ course tomorrow about being a diplomatic spouse en poste. They’ll probably all leave.’

  They were standing closer now. ‘How did you meet?’ he asked.

  ‘Me and Hugo?’ She laughed as at a joke. ‘In a pub the first time, with a lot of others. Then at a charity ball. He was the only man around who didn’t seem all wishy-washy and overcome by flower-power and all that. Also, he could dance. It may surprise you but Hugo’s a good dancer. Ballroom, of course, nothing informal for Hugo. I love it too but you hardly ever meet a man under fifty who can do it. Now d’you mind if I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘So long as it’s not about my dancing.’

  She indicated the pipe and tobacco pouch he was holding. ‘Why do you smoke that?’

  ‘Well, I like it – that is, I sometimes like it, other times it makes me dizzy. It’s an acquired technique and taste, I suppose. I’m not very good at it yet.’

  ‘But why acquire it?’

  ‘I wanted a habit. Other people have habits. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t, so I thought of this. At least it’s not cigarettes or morris dancing. And my father smoked one. I took it up after he died.’

  ‘I’d have thought that might now be a reason for not. Anyway, it doesn’t suit you. You’re not old enough.’

  ‘It doesn’t lend me gravitas?’

  She smiled. ‘What do you want with gravitas, Charles? What are you trying to be? You still cut your hair as if it’s the fifties. You’ll be going for walks with a tweed hat and stick soon. You don’t have to be your father. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I do walk with a stick. And I have a tweed cap. Both his. Nostalgia, I suppose. I like nostalgia.’

  ‘Keep that for your old age. You should be doing things now about which you can feel nostalgic then, when it’s too late for anything else.’ She took a step away. ‘I’m sorry. Who am I to lecture you on your life? Especially with what you must be going through. I was shocked when Hugo told me but not surprised, if you see what I mean. Not that I knew your father, of course, but I sensed that something intimate was wrong with you, something horrid – and made worse by other people talking about it like this. Time I dragged the other half of my own life off to bed.’